


John and Sherlock Switch Bodies

by crimsonwinter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Sherlock - Freeform, Smut, Switching bodies, shower scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-11 11:56:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonwinter/pseuds/crimsonwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The men wake up one morning and discover that they've switched bodies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so weird - I love it.

Sherlock's nerves came to life like dancing flames on strings, the warmth of his bed calling him to stay. He knew he had to get up and start his day, and it'd only be illogical to stay for even a few more moments.

He sat up, he felt heavier than he remembered. He felt like his torso was stouter, but he pushed the feeling aside. He assumed it was due to his lack of sleep, the past few weeks dragging him into a twisted schedule. He and John had been working on a case that left them both grumpy and tired by the early morning of the night.

Luckily, it'd been a little over a year since they'd took on the role of detective and partner, and they were learning to bounce back fairly quickly after a fight. 

Sherlock dropped his feet to the floor beside the bed, having them take an extra second longer to find the ground. As he stood, he felt that same heaviness and stoutness come about him, and he speculated that his pajamas were draping his legs and bundled at his ankles, as if his legs were too short for them.

He moseyed around his room, trying to walk off the strange feeling. His eyes were still groggy as he made his bed, shuffling into his slippers, which were strangely loose around his feet.

Sherlock wasn't a man who had an affinity with looks. He knew that he was attractive, John's responses made that clear, but he wasn't one to gawk in front of the mirror.   
However, he did own a mirror in his room, just so he could untangle his wild curls and scrape the sleep from his eyes in the morning. 

Today, he wanted to see if his tired, heavy mood had sneaked into his face. He did want to look presentable, after all. 

He shuffled towards the wall, the oval mirror hanging tightly on the clean wall. Sherlock yawned as he stepped in front of it.

When the water and grog in his eyes cleared, John was staring back at him. Sherlock was surprised and furrowed his brow, John instantly doing the same.

Sherlock mouthed something inaudible, John's lips parting slightly, a strangled sound coming from his lips.

It dawned on Sherlock, and widening his eyes, he stepped back clumsily. John's reflection stumbled away from the mirror as well, disappearing from view as Sherlock fell over and crashed onto the floor, his bum and thighs stinging from the force.

Sherlock gaped at himself. He checked his hands. They were darker and more worn that his own. They weren't slender and pale, they were John's rough army hands. He patted his chest, which was firm and solid. He winced slightly as he hit a spot on John's chest, his chest, on his shoulder. 

The scar. Sherlock wanted to stand, to face the mirror again, but his bare feet caught his eye. The feet that twitched before him were not his own, they were smaller and wider.  
Sherlock flexed his arms as his surprise turned to curiosity. His biceps were thicker as well. Not that he wasn't a fit man, but John had been in military training and most likely did many torso exercises.

Sherlock began to explore himself further, touching his now round face, John's trademark lines and wrinkles becoming his own.

He stood up, aware that now he was John's height. He was used to the feel of the weight now. It wasn't as if John was heavy and thick, it was as if his weight had been compacted into a smaller container. Sherlock was used to being tall and lean, his bones and muscles acting accordingly to his height. Now, he was solid and compact.

He chuckled, John chucking with him in the mirror which he decided to face.

Sherlock caught himself staring for far too long a time. He had never been this close to John's face before, and now he was able to prod it and touch it, feeling his own fingers gliding over John's stubble. Sherlock's once light blue eyes were now a dark forest green, his dark, wild curls settling down into thin, soft, dark blonde strands. Sherlock's mouth and teeth were oddly shaped and Sherlock, to his own dismay, ended up exploring John's mouth thoroughly with John's own tongue.

He felt everything, he wasn't numb. He forced himself to think purely scientifically as his hands began to sweat with the morning heat and his shoulders tensed with the strain of regular activities, such as stretching and lifting.

It was all fascinating, really.

Sherlock spent the next half hour calculating how this could've happened, and, if this meant John had his body. He got up much earlier than John, he deduced, so he had plenty of time to work this out before his shower and morning tea.

His thoughts balked, his mind palace going cold and empty. He'd have to shower. He'd have to see John naked. He'd have to wash...

Sherlock's face beneath John's skin began to heat, and his heart rate increased. His hands twitched, and although his face was impassive as he'd learned to control ever since he met John, his body was going wild. Sherlock felt his stomach tighten, his muscles coil, and his groin spark.

Sherlock Holmes cursed under his breath, attempting to hold his arousal at the many thoughts that came flooding into his head. It'd be so easy to peek at John's body, all of it, now that it was his. It wasn't his, it was John's, John's private body and personal reactions. 

The frightened detective couldn't bear it. This is how John reacted when he was aroused. His breath hitched, his thighs and pelvis heated, and now, Sherlock was deducing that this is what John would feel when he had an erection.

Sherlock stood. Nope, that wasn't smart. He sat again. His tented pajamas were embarrassing and wrong. This was how sensitive John must've been.  
The thin fabric of Sherlock's pants brushed against John's silky skin, and Sherlock was at a loss. His choices were few. He could either invade John's privacy and "satisfy" his horribly unwanted need, or he could force it away. 

Sherlock slowly reached a hand down towards the bulge that was nearly twitching in anticipation, John's abs contracting with Sherlock's response.  
The man in another man's body was stopped by a loud shout from upstairs. 

"FUCK!" John screamed.

John tumbled around his room, knocking over piles of clothes, books, and personal knick knacks that he collected. He towered over everything, the new height messing with his posture as he tried to gain his balance.

He failed and fell onto his bed, his slender form toppling over with new lightness. His arms and legs were long, and as he reached for nothing, he caught a glimpse of pale, thin fingers flying above his head.

They landed on his face, which was now tight and sensitive. John's face was a tad squishy, while Sherlock's high cheekbones jutted out and stretched his skin handsomely.   
John cursed under his breath, his chest rising and falling softly. His shoulder no longer hurt and his ribs were light and tender, rather than the sore that he'd feel if he took too deep a breath.

John scrambled off the bed and fell on his stomach, his new hipbones hitting the floor before his abdomen. He was spindly and tall and dizzy, and as he struggled to stand once again, he felt thick curls flop over his forehead.

John was terrified. What if he bruised Sherlock's body? What if he messed it up, scarred it, or even scratched it?

Sherlock was such a regal prick that John was sure he'd damage his body with his clumsiness. He had no clue that Sherlock had been inches away from exploring every bit of John's body on the floor below while he was scared stiff at even touching Sherlock's pale skin.

He found the mirror again and decided to force himself to look at the reflection for longer than the few seconds he'd caught moments ago, before shouting profanity. 

He'd awoken feeling light headed, and being consumed by his own looks, he stumbled out of bed, feeling strangely tall, and checked the mirror as he always did.

Now he was watching Sherlock's eyes widen, his mouth purse, his eyebrows raise, and his cheekbones catch the morning light all in response to John doing the same. 

John finally calmed himself down and concluded that this was just a strange dream, so he might as well see if it was so.

He pinched the thin skin of his cheek, instantly feeling the pain. He watched the mark his fingernails left redden and he instantly began to go into shock once more.

John, the doctor, had no explanation for this. He didn't understand how he had Sherlock's strong brow and long, prominent nose.

Did this mean Sherlock had his body?

John took another cooling breath, reveling in the painless expansion his lungs created. He ran a finger over Sherlock's sharp knuckles before locking eyes with the handsome man's reflection once more.

He heard a Sherlock's voice come from downstairs, and he flew into panic thinking that Sherlock had his own body as well, and that there'd just be two Sherlocks walking around.  
He popped his head out of the door, nearly bumping it on the arch on the way out.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was his own. 

"John?" Sherlock's was his own as well, and it was increasing in volume as it traveled up the stairs.

John Watson was panicking on the inside. Luckily, none of the sexual thoughts that Sherlock had explored had been dancing into his brain and he wasn't feeling strange and invasive as Sherlock was as he made his way up the stairs.

Fortunately for Sherlock, John's swear had stopped him from exploring John's area, and he was relieved to hear him bumbling around, most likely due to his new form.  
Sherlock appeared on the highest step and John looked at himself.

"Fuck..." he swore, astounded.

Sherlock smiled, John's cheeks tightening into a grin in response.

After a few seconds of exposed staring, the men nearly chuckled at the other's clothes. Sherlock's silk pajamas were loose and big on John's body, while John's plain white shirt and boxers were short on Sherlock's.

John looked down at himself, "Is that really what I look like to you?"

He used humor as a defense mechanism, which worked out in this case. Sherlock flashed John his own smile, and John was intrigued that that was what he looked like when smiling so widely. In fact, it seemed that was his flirtiest smile.

Sherlock pondered over his own confused expression as he said, "Is that what I look like to you?"

The men laughed, the sight of themselves chuckling strange but pleasant. Both men's confidence shot through the roof knowing that they looked so handsome and intelligent as they did something as simple as laughing.

John wondered if Sherlock saw him the way he now saw himself. Sherlock thought the same.

John began to walk clumsily down the stairs, Sherlock laughing as he watched himself teeter down like a child who'd just learned to walk. 

John was fascinated by his new height, and he stared at himself from above. His eyes twinkled as they looked up, and it took a few seconds for John to remember that Sherlock was looking at him behind his own face.

He cleared his throat awkwardly and continued down the stairs, Sherlock following behind him.

"I'm the leader!" John said stupidly, mentally slapping himself at the rude comment. He'd assumed that Sherlock knew he was the dominant one in the relationship, but now that he pointed it out, he felt foolish.

"I'm the follower!" Sherlock imitated John's voice with a laugh.

The men joked about the other's status as they ate breakfast. 

It was a strange scenario, but eventually they came to the conclusion that it would be normal by the next morning.  
"And if it's not?" John said, worriedly.

"Then I'm going to have to shower eventually..." Sherlock let his secret thoughts seep out through the cracks in his words, and it finally dawned on John that he would have to do the same.

Which meant he'd see Sherlock naked.

John flushed under Sherlock's pale skin and Sherlock laughed, deducing that John had figured it out.

He couldn't control his laughter as John looked more and more uncomfortable. He'd been so tempted to invade John's privacy, and John seemed terrified at the thought of him doing the same.

Sherlock liked the power difference. It fueled him. It seemed as thought John was afraid to humanize Sherlock, even as he sat in his body, every inch of skin open for exploration.  
Sherlock tumbled backward in his chair, John staring back at him nervously.

The crash and laughter mixed with the hustled sound of Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs and into the flat. When she entered the scene, John was cackling maniacally, strangely darkly, even, his chair tipped over, his feet in the air. Sherlock sat stiffly, looking confused and embarrassed at the situation.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head, her relieved breath escaping under her words, "You boys..."

  
She disappeared, the men left to their own devices in the other's body.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shower scenes and a puzzled Lestrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really weird and challenging to write. I describe their personalities and voices but match them with the other's appearance. More sexy than I thought it'd be. 
> 
> Not that that's a bad thing. 
> 
> Lestrade is confused as all hell.

Once Sherlock had regained his regal composure, he scrambled out of the chair which was tipped onto the living room floor of 221B Baker Street. In John's body, he pulled the chair up and sat back down in it, smoothing his trousers with jittery hands. His own eyes looked at him puzzlingly, John processing the event. 

Mrs. Hudson had flitted away quickly, as she usually appeared and disappeared from their flat like a fleeting ray of sun.

"Why did you do that?" John asked, Sherlock's plump lips coming together and separating, John's voice escaping them.

"Your face - my face - when I said that..." Sherlock sniggered again, unable to control the memory of his own face plastered with a horrified and embarrassed expression from trickling back into his mind palace. He filed it away. It would make him laugh if he needed to.

John cleared his throat and looked away, darting his gaze from himself widely grinning at him. He'd have to get used to looking at himself like that, at least for as long as he'd be trapped in his partner's body.

Sherlock spoke calmly, his voice deep and grumbling, the hint of laughter still rolling beneath the dark vibrations, "I think it's time we got ready."

"For what?" John took in the sight of himself standing from his chair and walking towards Sherlock's room.

"The case, of course," Sherlock's feline voice seeped into John's cheekbones. Sherlock smirked, his back to John, who sat in shock before jumping up, nearly tumbling over the new height.

"We can't go on a case like this, Sherlock!" John screeched.

"Too bad, I already told Lestrade we would. Now I'm going to take a shower, it's only fair if you do, too."

John stopped quickly, almost tripping over Sherlock's big feet. Sherlock dipped into the bathroom before John could speak and tell him not to. 

He turned around and went to sit down again, his legs shaking with the realization that Sherlock would be bathing his naked body.

John Watson took a deep breath and tried to think of how rational and intelligent Sherlock Holmes would be when he looked at him. Sherlock would feel his scar, flex his muscles, deduce how his body had been pushed to its limits during the war. He'd even have to see that part of him, which wasn't anything to be ashamed of. 

John was strangely smug as he flitted about in Sherlock's body. 

Maybe now that Sherlock would see him naked, the chance of them ever having a quickie was more plausible.

"Fucking hell, John." He swore to himself as he pressed Sherlock's large hands into his bony, handsome face, forcing his mind to stay away from the thought that he'd have to wash Sherlock's body next.

The detective was nervously pacing about the bathroom. He wondered if he shouldn't have said that, shouldn't have made the joke at all. What if John wasn't comfortable with having his body seen and bathed by him? Sherlock looked at John's concerned eyes in the mirror - they killed him like nothing else. Those worrisome, sad, forest green eyes and worn countenance. 

John must've tried harder to stop him if he was really uncomfortable, Watson wasn't one to let people take advantage of him, especially Sherlock.

Sherlock felt himself become heated again, and he knew it was inevitable that he'd become aroused at the sight of John's body.

The walled man wasn't attracted to anyone besides John, which had proved difficult in past events. Now there was this. 

Sherlock bit John's lip and decided that the boundary must be crossed if they were to deal with this occurrence rationally. 

He locked eyes with John in the mirror and began to finger the hem of his sleeping shirt.

Sherlock clamped John's fingers down on the hem at the back of his neck and lifted his arms upward and forward, the shirt slipping over his head softly. The overly lengthy piece of clothing fell in a soft pile at John's feet, Sherlock now staring down at John's bare chest.

It was solid. His muscles weren't as delicate and outlined as Sherlock's own, but the heavy, dense body was a glorious sight. Sherlock tried helplessly to keep his arousal down, but it was a loss. He touched Jon's ab muscles and felt them contract with his own surprise.

Soon, Sherlock was exploring each part of John's chest, from the width of his solid hips to the tender, shiny, puckered skin on his shoulder.

Sherlock watched himself touch John's body in the mirror, John's neck and shoulders tough and tight against his clavicles and tendons.

The detective breathed quickly and deduced that he mustn't waste time in admiration, he needed to bathe.

The flustered man dropped his sleeping pants without relinquishing eyes with John's blushing reflection. He was definitely aroused. That wasn't uncommon when dealing with John, of course. Seemed it was only John who could spark that reaction in the man, since sex had never been his strength or favorite pastime.

He felt himself spring forward and he closed his eyes quickly. He couldn't keep them shut tightly for long, and muttering "Oh for God's sake" on his breath, he took a peek at John's length.

It was thicker than his, and a little shorter, but it was glorious. The fact that it was alive and hard because of Sherlock's personal reactions was nearly too much to deduce, and Sherlock hopped in the shower before he found himself lost in the sight of John. Sherlock usually was, but his impassive countenance hid his reaction. John was a very handsome man, his face prominent yet welcoming. 

Sherlock was attracted to him, that he deduced for himself the first moment John appeared with Mike Stamford. Since then, John's loyal personality and slight arsehole nature had only drawn Sherlock more, and he found himself completely devoted to the man. Although he teased him and shouted at him, Sherlock could never picture himself without John's presence beside him. He had forced himself to stay away from labels, and his mind only ran over those same words, those same phrases when he asked what it really meant.

He turned the handle quickly, distressed yet eager to wash away the smell of John's skin, which had risen and curled around him in the small shower as Sherlock began to perspire in the steamy air.

The stream from the spout went from cold to warm and woke Sherlock up, his sleepy eyes now fresh and intelligent. He took in the sight of John's body streaming with water. The droplets caught on his stomach and flowed off his arms. His tanned skin prickled ike an incredible art, begging to be touched and soaked.

Of course, he was looking at this body downwards, so it was different from straight on, the view that Sherlock would have been lucky to see if that event ever occurred. Luckily, the mirror only showed to Sherlock John's face and shoulders, so the overall effect of John naked was lost, Sherlock's wanton imagination barely spared.

The fascination was there undoubtedly and throbbing.

Sherlock contemplated satisfying his need as he had when he'd first woken up, but that would be violation of John's privacy. Or was it? 

He couldn't very well hand back John's body with his own arousal tainting it.

Sherlock's head spun with the technicality of it all, and he took note from John as he threw caution to the wind with a muttered "Oh, fuck it," and wrapped John's hand around himself.

It was warm, silky, and hard, like his own on those seldom occasions he'd sought release from himself, but now that it was John's...

Sherlock tilted his head back, John's strong neck and Adam's apple exposed to the running water of the shower. He stroked himself smoothly at first, adjusting to the growing pleasure he desired. John was velvet and nearly melted into his hand, the skin tugging lightly over the head, the warm water enveloping it, a sensation on its own. 

The man pressed a hand against the shower wall, the square tiles accommodating his spread palm, fingers twitching. Sherlock hoped to last long, but he knew John was waiting for him just outside, and the thought mixed with his pleasured and sent him into a quickening pace, eager to ride the waves of his orgasm, John's muscles clenching and contracting along with him.

Sherlock finished quickly with a whorish moan, the new shape and thickness adding to his growing interest. He flushed with blush as he watched the water wipe away the result of what he'd done, but his rational brain took control and told him that he had to look at the task scientifically. The heat and sex rinsed down the drain and Sherlock was reduced to an intelligent man in his flatmate's body, not an intelligent man wanking in his flatmate's body, using the feel of him and the undisciplined dreams he often had as fodder for his pleasures.

He washed John's hair and smeared suds around John's body with the soap that rested innocently beside his left hip. Now that he was relieved of the sexual pressure that he'd built up, he could look at this with logical, quick eyes. He bathed as if it were his own body, although all the places he touched were new and undiscovered.

He stood a few more minutes, feeling the water run down John's shoulders and chest. Sherlock focused on the thought that John would be waiting for him to finish, so he regretfully clambered out of the shower after swiveling the knob, and wrapped a white towel around John's solid hips, eager to pop out and see John's reaction. Sherlock liked to tease John in the sense. He really was devilish in that way.

John's hand turned off the light with Sherlock's movement, and he exited the bathroom with a sway of his hips, droplets scurrying down John's muscular calves and falling innocently onto the carpet of the living room with each step.

Sherlock's regal form was sitting stiffly in the same chair he'd been retreating from when Sherlock left, his seagreen-turqouise-grey-skybkue-woodland leaf-dark ocean eyes swirling with nervous worry.

"Hello," Sherlock said, his rumbling voice squeaking with the thought of the sounds he'd made in the shower just then.

"Well?" Sherlock's terse face was terrifying as John contorted it so, knowing exactly how frightening it made him look.

"All clean. Your turn," Sherlock stopped in front of John to calm himself. Sherlock's own body was a relief and he watched the familiar face change before turning on his heel. Sherlock walked calmly towards the staircase which led into John's room, eager to dress himself and start the day.

John watched himself skip happily up the stairs to his room, Sherlock's eyes and long hands fluttering with nervous excitement. John couldn't bear to see Sherlock's naked body, but he knew that it was only fair, since Sherlock had done just that with his body. That thought bounced around in John's mind as he made his way to the bathroom, which was steamed up and moist from just being used. If Sherlock had just bathed his body, he'd seen everything. Now John was about to see that as well. John's heartrate increased and he became instantly aroused, much more accepting of his growing erection than Sherlock had been. Although John knew nothing of what had just transpired, he was thinking similar thoughts with the familiar smell of soap in his nose.

He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door with Sherlock's hand. That sight alone, the pale, slender, perfect hand, caused John to remember that this was Sherlock's body. This body had been through drug abuse as well as the pressures of being completely regal and attractive. John was quite aware that Sherlock's physical appearance was something to be admired - his salacious thoughts and dreams told him that much. Even Sherlock's angry voice, crinkled nose, and flaming eyes curled John's stomach into a coil. John pushed these thoughts away, knowing he'd never act on them, and sought his sexual frustrations in the forms of women.

It always left him feeling empty and guilty, for some reason.

John stood in front of the mirror now, Sherlock's face staring back at him. He lost himself in Sherlock's eyes for much too long, and hearing his own heavy footsteps canter past the bathroom door, he reached up to his collar to pull the sleeping shirt from his head.

His breath hitched inaudibly as he soaked in the sight of Sherlock's pale chest and strong shoulders. His clavicles and neck were tight and clean, not a trace of scars similar to John's. The light freckling on his neck was admired as John felt Sherlock become more human in his eyes - he had a naked body, a bare chest, he wasn't wearing a suit jacket under his suit jacket.

John felt Sherlock's tight skin with light fingers before balking at the impression of Sherlock's neck upon hearing the owner of the body's voice.

"John, have you showered?"

"I only just got in!" John shouted back as he dropped his pants, staring at the door, completely unaware of Sherlock's hardening length rising up and touching his flat stomach.

"You're taking too long, hurry it up, for God's sake. We have to be at the crime scene soon."

John nodded curtly, "Alright, I'll be quick."

"Doubt it," he heard Sherlock mumble, his words slipping through out his mouth sneakily.

John smiled and caught Sherlock's face in the mirror. He nearly gasped; Sherlock's face was rarely in such a wide grin. Either a smirk or a small tugging of the corners of his lips, but never such a toothy grin. It was beautiful.

John was now aware of Sherlock's area, the head of the pale member brushing against his stomach.

The doctor lowered his eyes to it, completely drawn to the beauty of it. Sherlock had a prick, he had glistening precome and soft hair and everything - it was like he was human. He was, but in a Sherlockian way.

John noticed that it nearly bounced as he felt it harden, and he couldn't help but grab it. Still grasping it as he backed into the shower, he turned the knob with his free hand, naughtily wanking hurriedly. 

It was slimmer and longer than John's own, a different color, too, more pale than his. It was just like the man who owned it - sitting up straight and regal even when nothing asked it to.

He sprawled Sherlock's fingers across Sherlock's chest as his damp curls flopped into his closed eyes. John reveled in the pleasure, entirely different than when he did it himself (admittedly, very often) and he sunk deeper as he saw stars and twisted his wrist in just the way he knew how.

He finished quickly as well. He wasn't ashamed at that, he knew he lasted longer when he did it himself, it was just overwhelming to watch Sherlock's toned torso breath his quick breaths, the spot of dark hair around his base dampening in the warm water.

John's head cleared of the stars he saw as he orgasmed and he set about washing Sherlock's tall form. He hurried, eager to see the man who waited outside the door.

He chuckled to himself as he washed under Sherlock's tight arms, "I won't be seeing him," he muttered, "I'll be seeing me!"

The doctor was fascinated by the predicament but reveled in its opportunities, touching every bit of Sherlock's body while he still had control of it.

He turned the shower off and stepped out, realizing that there wasn't a towel to use seconds too late. Sherlock's form was dripping and coated in droplets, standing helplessly on the mat beside the shower.

"Sherlock," John called meekly.

"Hm?" He heard from outside the door. Sherlock sounded as if he sat in his chair.

"Can you bring me a towel?" This wasn't the first time this had happened, and it wasn't the second, either. Sherlock usually just popped a hand through the crack in the door and handed it to John, but this situation was different.

Sherlock would be able to tell what he'd done, being Sherlock.

John heard the heavy weight scurry around the flat before coming back towards the door. He reached a wet hand towards the knob of the bathroom door and opened it slightly. His own hand slipped through, holding a fresh green towel, and after lingering there for one second too long, it disappeared again.

John wrapped the green towel around his hips and paraded the fine body around the flat, watching Sherlock's reaction using John's own eyes. 

It was easier to read himself. He knew what he looked like when he gawked, but now his face was twisted slyly. Sherlock was deducing him.

With smug words, Sherlock found himself knowing exactly that John had done what he'd done. He knew by the flush in his own cheeks and the shakiness in his walk.

"Have fun?" He cooed flirtatiously.

John nodded, realizing that Sherlock knew he'd just wanked. His eyes were warm and compassionate, which was new, so John figured he was off the hook. Sherlock was a cocky bastard, he knew that John wouldn't be able to resist his body.

"Get dressed then, I've picked out some clothes for you and put them in my room. Be nice to the suit jacket, it's one of my favorites." 

John nodded once more.

"Stop nodding, you make me look incompetent."

The man turned quickly and rushed off to dress, leaving Sherlock running through every situation and reaction John must've had to his body.

When John returned, Sherlock's body was dressed beautifully, as it usually was, and Sherlock popped out of the chair and arranged John's favorite jacket around his wrists before he lead the way down the stairs, John trailing behind him.

Before he opened the door to the outside realm, however, Sherlock stopped and spoke calmly, "You lead me, it looks strange. And I'll tell Lestrade what the situation is, hopefully Donovan and Anderson won't be there to mumble unintelligently."

John sighed, "Yes Sherlock," he said, his voice reminisce of the usual 'Yes, dear,' of married couples.

He scooted in front of himself, watching as his eyes darted up to Sherlock's mouth. Such a strange situation, he wondered if Lestrade would believe them.

John hustled out the door and hailed a cab, which came more quickly than it would have if John were in his own body. He snorted at the elitist nature of the cab driver and he sneaked in, John crawling in behind him.

"Where to, Mr. Sherlock, sir?" the cabbie spoke.

"Corner of Balcombe Street and Ivor, please. There's been a suicide." Sherlock spoke, his voice startling powerful. John would've felt that usual tug at his groin if he hadn't just satisfied himself. The flutter in his stomach was still there, however.

"Ooh," the cabbie gasped, "Any more details you can lay on me?" He started the cab and veered away from the curb.

Sherlock spoke again, John's eyes on the back of the drivers head to which he was directing Sherlock's voice, "Frederick, you know I can't divulge any more than that. It's a wonder I tell you the situation at all."

"I know, Mr. Detective, sir. I only hoped."

Sherlock nodded. John was captivated by the way he spoke to those under him in status, it was regal but comforting.

They rode silently along in the cab, turning streets. John and Sherlock chatted in the seats behind Frederick so their voiced meshed into a hum, the cabbie obvious to the voiced arising from the other's lips.

Once they made it to the corner, the police cars and caution tape blocked the rest of the way. There was a dark plastic tarp over a lump on the street and officers were clearing away cars.

The pudgy man nearly pushed the cab away with a flick of his hand before Lestrade stopped him, noticing the detective and his partner in the backseat.

"Ah!" He motioned, the men clambering out of the car. John flicked some money at the cab driver, who tipped his hat and backpedaled, fleeing the scene without disrupting the crime.

"What took you so bloody long?" Lestrade's dark eyes looked at them sternly.

Sherlock bowed his head and nudged John to do the same, covering their mouths, "We'll explain, if you just come over here…" 

John and the two men stood away from the hustle of the scene, Sherlock now looking up.

"There's been a bit of a switch, fascinating, really, though I cannot for the life of me scientifically prove it."

Lestrade's eyes widened and he looked between the men. John was smug in his regal suit jacket and usual black coat, Sherlock looking humble and content in his every day jeans and jacket.

"Sherlock?"

Lestrade was baffled and John had to bit Sherlock's plump lip to keep from laughing.

"Nope, he's Sherlock." He darted his now lime eyes towards John's body.

"Wha-"

Sherlock straightened himself, "Seems we've switched bodies. Hopefully temporarily. This is me, Sherlock, as you can hear from my voice, and this is John. He's having trouble getting used to the new height and status he received when he hailed a cab. We'll be working with you today, so just address us as you would have yesterday, but the other will respond. It'll look strange having John lean down and make deductions of the victim, a woman, I presume? To Anderson and Donovan and the rest of the team, of course this will look strange, but we hope that they'll be too preoccupied arguing over Anderson's less than swell performance in the bedroom to notice. Understood?"

Lestrade gulped, wrapping his silver haired head around the babble of words streaming from the usually quieter John Watson.

"I s'pose…"

"Good, now tell me, is she wearing a wedding ring?"

Sherlock pushed past Lestrade and approached the victim, crouching beside it and lifting the tarp. Donovan and Anderson were not paying attention, as he'd suspected, and the other officers had little to do with the situation.

John laughed, Sherlock's face swelling with wonder and merriment.

"Bloody hell," Lestrade swore as his gaze darted between the men once more.

"You should've been there this morning, what with the showers." John said, his hands snug in his deep pockets. The coat smelled of Sherlock, it was intoxicating.

"What?" Lestrade's voice cracked and John pushed past him as Sherlock did, coming to stop beside the crouching man, looking down at the twisted arms of the woman in gym clothes.

The men had had their turn of shock, their laughter, even salaciously explored the other's body, but all the confusion of the situation was undoubtedly worth it for the look on Lestrade's face.


End file.
